He thinks he's in love. He wouldn’t call it that, not exactly—he's not some sentimental yuppie parading around with a Tiffany catalog and an engagement ring in his sock drawer. But he feels it, in a way that irritates him, as if it’s a stain under his fingernail that he can’t quite scrub out with Aesop soap. He has dinner with you on Tuesdays. He takes you to Dorsia, actually Dorsia, and the maître d’ smiles like you’re regulars. You look good on his arm. Better than good—you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to exfoliate out of his life.

You do things that confuse him. Like laugh. Like hold his hand without asking for anything in return. Like touch his face when he says something cruel and call it charming. That’s not how this is supposed to work. But he lets it. He allows it. Because it means something. He tells himself it means he’s getting better.

Because he is getting better.

He hasn’t killed in months. (Except that guy in the elevator. But that wasn’t the same. That didn’t count.) He reads novels now. Mostly summaries, but still. He’s been to therapy—once. He took you to see “Les Mis.” He made it through the whole thing. You said you cried. He didn’t understand that, but he remembers watching the tear slide down your cheek like it had a right to be there. It looked almost tasteful.

He’s thinking of quitting coke. Not all at once, he’s not reckless. But scaling back. Microdosing, maybe. Something sensible. He could start sleeping again. He could stop comparing every man in the room to himself. He could be—what’s the word you used? Stable.

He likes the idea of being yours.

He’s begun to plan things. Long-term things. Vacations. Matching key cards for his place. Moving your things in, little by little. He tells you he’s minimalist. That’s a lie. He’s keeping drawers empty for you. He imagines you living with him. He imagines waking up beside you. He imagines you waking up and staying.

Then you don’t answer your phone. For two days.

He doesn’t spiral. He goes to the gym. He gets a haircut. He eats a dry chicken breast with sea salt and spinach and tells himself everything is fine. You’re busy. You’re an adult. You’re his.

Then Craig tells him.

He didn’t want to know, but Craig is always talking—too loud, too fast. Says he saw you. Says he thought it was weird. You, in line for Magic Mike Live.

With your friends. Laughing.

He laughs, too. Craig. He says, “I didn’t think that was your scene, Bateman. Thought you broke her of that.” And then something inside him—something bright and silver and surgical—splits.

He tells Craig to shut the fuck up.

He buys two sets of restraints from Barneys. Soft leather, of course. He takes the long way home, lets his mind do what it does best: edit. Rewrite. Tighten. Focus.

He knows what this is now. He sees it clearly. You forgot who you belonged to. You wandered. That’s fine. You’ll remember soon.

The door clicks behind you.

He’s standing in the dark, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like he’s prepping for surgery. His voice is calm, the way only a man who’s already made a decision can sound.

“So. Magic Mike, huh?”